Quarter-century. Gulp....that sounds awful. I mean, a quarter-century! I've been married for a quarter of 100 years?? Hold on while I get my cane and toss my dentures into a foaming glass of whatever they use to soak dentures in, and then I'll turn on Matlock and tell you about life before the Great War..
Well, I'm not so old as all that, but you know what I mean when I say 25 years sounds better than a quarter-century.
So my 25 year wedding anniversary was a couple of days ago. Stacey and I are pretty simple in our celebrations, not to mention that we are enjoying a rare visit from Pam and Marley this month, so we decided on a family dinner celebration rather than a fancy dinner reservation for just the two of us. We have had, do have, and will have plenty of time spent only in each other's company, but times spent around a dinner table with most of the family present are rare and valuable.
In honor of the day, I stopped by the local florist to pick up roses. From a practical standpoint, roses are a terrible gift. They last only a few days before shriveling and drooping in a depressing metaphor for life's transitory nature, they cost more than other flowers, and the ones bred for their beauty generally lack the spectacular rose smell. But, for a once-in-a-while treat, they are unmatched for sheer gorgeousness and extravagance. Is there a better way to say "I love you so much I blew about a hundred bucks on something beautiful that's only gonna last a couple of days?"
Errr....maybe, maybe not. So, anyway, I went to the local florist. You know, to get some roses. Because.
The florist had two orders she was filling ahead of mine, but she went ahead and picked out the roses and the "filler" that also goes in the vase: The lacy white flowers and green sprig and twigs that bulk out the central roses. While she made the other orders in front of mine, I browsed around her shop, if browse means "walked around trying not to knock things over and trying to look interested in 70-year-old typewriters re-purposed into herb planters." This shop was more diverse than other little arty floral shops I've visited, because it had a (tiny) Man Crafts section in the cobwebby front corner. The Man Crafts in question were a few spark-plug and hex-bolt motorcycle sculptures and three hand-saws hanging on the pegboard wall that had Texas Lone Star flags painted on them.
My patience is well-developed; I was still feigning interest in the Depression milk-glass collection when she began to arrange my flowers into a vase. Looking through the selection of red and orange and pink roses, she picked out two of them that did not pass muster to swap them out for more vaseworthy specimens in the cooler.
By this time, I had looked over those flowers ten or twelve times in the interminable 15 minutes I spent orbiting the shop like a 747 circling round and round an airport hoping a landing strip opens up before the gas runs out. By now, those roses were mine. I admit my aesthetic standards are undeveloped, even primitive (is it rose-shaped? colorful? have a stem? some leaves on the stems? a thorn or two? okay, that passes my test!), and any lopsidedness or off-color was entirely outside of my capacity to recognize. And they were mine. I had been looking at them for a good 15 minutes. 15 minutes is an eternity when you have to pee or have to entertain yourself in a curio-and-curiosity shoppe, an eternity long enough to adopt a dozen slightly-imperfect roses as your own.
To her credit, the florist didn't even wince or roll her eyes when I requested that she return the wretched ones to the vase.
And the roses were lovely. And still are, definitely for another couple of days at least.
You can't even tell which roses are less-than-spectacular. Tucked in between bunches of greenery and whitery, baby's breath and fern-ish sprigs and twigs, they are all stunning. Sometimes things just work out so that imperfections and blemishes are lost in the overall picture. I need to remind myself sometimes to step back and look at the whole bouquet, admire it rather than get caught up in the separate pieces.
To just enjoy.
I've sure enjoyed these 25 years. This quarter-century, even.
To her credit, the florist didn't even wince or roll her eyes when I requested that she return the wretched ones to the vase.
And the roses were lovely. And still are, definitely for another couple of days at least.
You can't even tell which roses are less-than-spectacular. Tucked in between bunches of greenery and whitery, baby's breath and fern-ish sprigs and twigs, they are all stunning. Sometimes things just work out so that imperfections and blemishes are lost in the overall picture. I need to remind myself sometimes to step back and look at the whole bouquet, admire it rather than get caught up in the separate pieces.
To just enjoy.
I've sure enjoyed these 25 years. This quarter-century, even.
